I Will Not Weep and Wonder
by shortbuschick1462
Summary: Haytham and Connor Kenway had a relationship doomed to end from the very start in AC3. But, what if it began as doomed and didn't end up that way? Rewriting AC3's Connor/Haytham fate, one scene at a time. For all AC fans, but particularly for those like myself who wanted Connor and Haytham's relationship to turn out good and end well.
1. Missing Supplies

**Author's Note: Okay. I felt like my previous attempt at an Assassin's Creed fic was a total fail, so I'm going to base this one on something different. Similar, but different. I'm going to take the game where I wanted it to go. Connor/Haytham-wise, I mean. And, come on. They had to spend more time together than just the cutscenes, so I'm making new ones as well. I'll try to stay in character as much as I can, so any criticisms or advice are welcome. I don't usually ask for this, but read and review, as it is my "first" AC story!**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing of the Assassin's Creed franchise. I'm just such an obsessive fan that I wrote this story.**

_Ratonhnhake:ton. Ratonhnhake:ton. _

_The name went through the boy's mind incessantly. He was aged about five years, already having lost his mother to the worst kind of death imaginable for one so young. Tears never stopped rolling down his dirty cheeks, the crippling ache in his heart never went away. _

_These feelings would grow with the boy in stature and in strength, and one day, Connor Kenway would become the greatest Assassin colonial America would ever claim._

_But he did not yet know it. His journey was only beginning._

* * *

The dry, frigid wind blasted Connor in the face. His hood rippled dangerously, and for a moment, he thought it would blow back. A shiver tore through him, and he pulled his arms tighter against his body. The chestnut horse under him snorted and tossed its head.

An abandoned church sat to his left. There were not even windows in the window frames, nor a door at the entrance. The wind blew kernels of snow through these gaps, making it seem like a building did not even stand there. From his vantage point on horseback, the structure looked completely empty to Connor. For a fleeting moment, he thought about turning tail and heading back to Valley Forge to tell Washington that there was nothing to be found of Benjamin Church or the stolen supplies.

However, something inside him urged him to leave his horse and go inside. He couldn't quite classify the feeling, but he heeded it regardless.

White snow crunched under boot soles as the ground took on the Assassin's weight. The wind had eased off by now, breathing only a chilly breeze. The tails of his robes fluttered around him. Connor began to slowly walk towards the entrance of the church. He hesitated when he came to the threshold, then stepped over.

The man lying in wait on the beam above him started with surprise. Breath caught in a tightening throat, and a surge of indecipherable emotion ran through him. Haytham Kenway had expected a few paid mercenaries or even Church himself to waltz into his trap. But certainly not the Assassin called Connor.

Certainly not his son.

Connor stopped only a few feet into the church. He looked to his left and to his right before a feeling of being watched began to claw at him. Under the hood, his ears picked up the soft scuff of boots against wood and the faint rustle of cloth.

It was coming from above.

Quickly, he whipped around and looked up just in time for a man to smash into his chest, knocking him hard onto his back and making all the breath leave his lungs in a cry. He felt no pain, but only a constant pressure on his sternum that kept him pinned to the freezing planks. Plumes of fog indicated his attacker's heavy exhales, and without even seeing his face, Connor knew he was aged. But when he did lay eyes on the man atop him, his plans to struggle ceased.

It was Haytham Kenway, Templar Grandmaster and estranged parent.

"Father." The Assassin's voice held a harsh, biting note. The word alone was one that Connor never thought he would utter to the man himself in all his life. His father had, after all, left his mother in the early stages of pregnancy.

Haytham had to admit that he was taken aback by the first word to come from the mouth of his son. So he _had_ known about his parentage, then. It was, at the same time, rather unfortunate. Killing him would have been much easier if he was none the wiser.

"Connor. Any last words?" he ventured. The difference between the two men's voices could not have been more outstanding. Connor's was a deep, clear, American timbre. Haytham's British tongue was more musical and lilting, albeit still a bass.

The Assassin saw the blade of the Templar and hurried to speak. "Wait!"

"A poor choice," his father replied. Haytham raised his arm to do the deed, and Connor seized his slim chance at freedom. Striking his father in the chest with all of his strength, he caused the man to grunt and stumble back a few steps. Apparently not a quitter, he surged forward again. Connor planted his feet into Haytham's torso and shoved. This time, he nearly fell out the door. The Assassin quickly got to a stand.

Haytham sighed internally and relaxed. His boy was strong; he'd give him that. As Connor began to speak, the two men started to circle one another as lions did when about to clash.

"Come to check up on Church? Make sure he'd stolen enough for your British brothers?" Connor accused angrily, pointing an accenting finger at his father's chest.

Haytham narrowed his eyes, his temper stoked at the alleged connections to such a fool as Church. "Benjamin Church is no brother of mine—no more than the Redcoats or their idiot king," he growled. His anger, however, evaporated as soon as it had materialized. The boy had spent his whole life being brainwashed, so he supposed Connor could not be expected to understand. When Haytham sighed in resignation, words came out with it. "Oh, I expected naiveté, but _this_?" Turning to face his son again, he continued. "The Templars do not fight for the crown," he clarified, gesturing with his hand. "We seek the same as you, boy! Freedom, justice, independence."

Connor shook his head, not believing him. "But…"

"Hmm?" Haytham challenged, opening his arms. "But what?"

"Johnson. Pitcairn. Hickey." The Assassin built his argument, naming all of his father's close—but now dead—associates. "They sought to steal land, to sack towns, to murder George Washington!" Connor's posture was slightly leaned in the Grandmaster's direction, threatening. He dared his father to put their motives in a light that made the slightest moral sense.

"Johnson sought to own the land, that we might keep it safe," Haytham began, his tone surprisingly patient. "Pitcairn aimed to encourage diplomacy, which you cocked up _thoroughly _enough to start a god-damned war!" His voice rose, any shred of patience that was once there vanishing. However, like vapor on the wind, his anger disappeared once more. He sighed. "And Hickey?" Haytham gave a slight shake of his head and halfway rolled his eyes, resuming the circling walk. Thomas had been many things, a friend included. But discreet was never one of his qualities. He waved a hand, signaling that he had no real argument for the man's behavior. "George Washington is a wretched leader. He's lost nearly every battle in which he's taken part. The man's wracked with uncertainty and insecurity! Only look at Valley Forge to know my words are true. We're all better off without him."

Connor could not deny Washington's battle reputation, and neither could he defend the state of Valley Forge. But he would never believe that the nation needed a leader with lesser moral qualities, nor would he ever consider the motives of the Templars fueled by good intentions. He could not find the words to voice these opinions, so he merely continued circling.

Haytham sighed. This was one of those moments that, if his tricorne hat were off, he would run his hands through his hair in agitation. "Look," he exhaled tiredly. "Much as I'd _love_ to spar with you, Benjamin Church's mouth is as big as his ego." He paused, noticing that Connor had finally come to a standstill. Clearly, he had his attention. "You clearly want the supplies he's stolen," Haytham continued. "I want him punished. Our interests are aligned," he stated, gesturing inclusively between them.

Connor looked away for a moment, then turned his neck to peer at his father. His face, though mainly expressionless, was laced with skepticism. "What do you propose?" he queried.

Haytham sucked in a quiet breath. It wasn't enough that his son had Ziio's eyes—oh, no! He had to talk like her as well. He didn't care for reminders of the woman he still loved, for it made him miss the feel of her in his arms, her dry sense of humor…everything. Leaving her was the hardest thing that he'd ever done, and it was a testament to how deep his feelings ran. As long as she would be happy, he could deal with being miserable. Haytham's depression had been palpable at first, but time had rubbed salve on the wound. However, at reminders like their _son_, for God's sake, the pain came like the bite of a whip.

"A truce," he managed casually. "Perhaps…" he trailed off and exhaled. "Perhaps some time together might do us good. You are my son, after all, and might still be saved from your ignorance." Though Haytham did feel a draw to his child, the fact that they hardly knew one another did not escape him, nor did the fact that they were on opposite ends of the political spectrum. To demonstrate this, he popped out his hidden blade and raised it. "I can kill you now, if you prefer," he offered lightly.

Many thoughts ran through Connor's head. Did he trust his father? Absolutely not. Should he? Most likely another no. But, since he was operating completely in the dark with no leads on the whereabouts of the stolen supplies, the Assassin was inclined to agree to the truce. The fact that Haytham had been stationed in the church before he'd even gotten there was evidence enough that the Templar Grandmaster could turn out to be helpful.

Even if his company was unbearable, Connor concluded sourly.

Haytham took his son's lack of reply as an assent. He re-sheathed his blade with a flourish. "Excellent," he crowed, sounding cheerful. Already, Connor was beginning to feel that he had made a mistake. "Shall we be off?" Haytham began to stride towards the outdoors.

Although he had known the location of the church, Connor doubted his father knew where the traitor was located. If he did, he wouldn't be wasting his time here. Still, the Assassin felt the need to rub it in a bit and press the issue.

"Do you even know where Benjamin Church has gone?" Connor asked, his tone condescending.

Facing away from his son, Haytham grimaced. He had been hoping that this topic wouldn't be covered in conversation. Rather, he had hoped there would scarce be conversation of any kind.

"I'm afraid not," he answered truthfully, trying to sound dignified. He folded his arms behind his back and continued. "I was hoping to ambush them here when he or one of his men returned. It seems I'm too late: they've come and cleared the place out." For the first time since he arrived, Haytham realized that he was truly out of luck. He had no idea where to look for Church next. As he studied the snow-laden trees, he sensed that his son was about to say something.

"I may be able to track him," Connor said hesitantly. Haytham turned to look at him, surprised. He had to admit that he'd be impressed if Connor could come up with a trail in this cold wasteland.

Without waiting for a response, Connor stepped out into the snow. There was a broken supply crate a ways away, so he figured he would start there. The Assassin crouched, examining the pieces of broken wood and cargo. When he sniffed, he got wind of medicines, food, and old cloth.

"There were rations inside the crates. Medical supplies and clothing as well," he murmured to himself, not caring whether his father heard. Connor straightened and jogged off. The cold air sliced at his lungs when he began to breathe through his mouth.

A felled tree formed the perfect ramp up to the network of branches and boughs Connor so regularly used. Temptation gnawed at him, but the presence of his father halted him: Haytham probably couldn't follow him if he chose to do it. The Templar Grandmaster didn't know how to climb trees. The Assassin rolled his eyes. He'd climbed his first tree at three years old. Granted, his mother had been with him, but he had climbed it nonetheless.

So Connor remained on the ground, running alongside the faint wagon tracks on the dirt road. They had almost crested a hill when he spotted the snow-buried cart being kicked by a man. He approached.

"Just my luck. I'm going to freeze to death if I don't get this fixed," the man grumbled. His Irish brogue was a bit annoying. He didn't even hear Connor and Haytham come up behind.

"Are you Ben Church's man?" The Assassin asked kindly, folding his hands together. The Irish man whirled around, took in the Templar and Assassin, then sprinted off. Haytham had predicted the outcome as soon as his son had begun to pose the question. He gave a slight shake of his head, and when Connor glanced at him, he looked up.

"Well played," the Templar praised sarcastically. It was clear that Connor didn't know how to handle certain situations.

Connor inhaled sharply, surprised at the frustration he felt. He'd just had a chance to prove to his father that he was a man of skill, but instead he probably saw a timid boy. A growl built in the Assassin's throat as he began to give chase.

Haytham was shocked at his son's speed. If he was being honest with himself, he'd not even run that fast when he was Connor's own age. His prime, however, was long over, and keeping up with the Assassin was proving to be difficult.

By the time Haytham caught up with him, Connor had tackled the man and slammed him against a tree. The Grandmaster put all of his effort into disguising his huffing and puffing. Thoughts that he was out of shape or getting old nagged at him, much to his annoyance.

Connor fisted his hand into the man's jacket. "It was not wise to run."

The Irish man did indeed recognize his mistake, and stuttered out his next words. "What do you want?"

"Where is Benjamin Church?" Connor demanded.

"I don't know!" Church's employee wailed. "We was riding for a camp just north of here; it's where we normally unload the cargo! Maybe you'll find him the—"

A deafening blast cut off the man's last word. A spray of bright red blood arced through the still air as the Irishman fell, a smear of blood staining the tree trunk he'd been pinned against. Connor backed away, putting a hand to his ringing ear.

"Enough of that." Haytham nonchalantly put his flintlock pistol back into its holster as if shooting men in the side of the head were a daily task.

The Assassin rounded on his father. "You did not have to kill him!" he yelled, outraged. His advancing strides caused Haytham to back up, feeling a bit threatened. His son was, after all, bigger than he. Not by much, of course, but still bigger.

"Let's not waste time with all this pointless banter," the Templar replied, irritated. "Go catch up with Church's men. Infiltrate that camp of theirs and see what you can discover." He began to turn away.

"What about you?" Connor questioned. Did his father realistically expect him to do all of the work by himself?

Haytham bristled. "Never you mind," he snapped, looking genuinely offended. "Just do as I ask."

Apparently, that was exactly what he expected.

So, as his lazy father studied the corpse he'd created, Connor trudged off to catch up to Church's convoy.

* * *

Ten minutes later, Connor had killed the foreman, three guards, and eavesdropped on two more without being detected. He'd found out that Church was planning a raid and was about to go find his father when two mercenaries appeared, each holding one of Haytham's arms behind his back.

_Splendid_, Connor thought bitterly from his hiding place. However, his anger turned to a kind of concern when he saw the pain in his father's expression. He was breathing hard; there'd obviously been some kind of struggle, even though it didn't look like he'd been struck. One of the men kicked the back of the Templar Grandmaster's legs, knocking him to his knees.

"Look what we found!" crowed the first guard.

"He was creepin' round the camp all suspicious-like," the other added in a rather nasally voice.

Haytham bared his teeth in a wince as one of them drove a knee into his back, twisting his arms higher simultaneously. He'd definitely be sore the next morning.

"Must be a Yank spy," the nasally guard concluded. Haytham almost rolled his eyes. Instead, he opted to clash gazes with the man that he was being presented to. It was obviously the ringleader.

The man studied him for a moment, then shook his head. "Nah, he's somethin' else, somethin' special. Isn't that right, _Haytham?_" The Templar narrowed his eyes in mild surprise as putrid breath spat out his name. "Church told me _all_ about you," the man continued arrogantly.

"Then you should know better than this," Haytham interrupted. The ringleader's jaw tightened, nostrils flaring at having his authority challenged by the prisoner. The Grandmaster knew the punch was coming before he'd even cocked his arm back. Come it did, however, and harder than Haytham expected. Pain exploded over his mouth as the fist crushed into his lips. The skin split and allowed blood to pour down his chin. In the cover of the bushes, Connor grimaced as the force of the blow knocked his father's head to the side. It would definitely leave swelling and a bruise. From here, the Assassin almost felt sorry for him.

The guard that had Haytham's right arm pinned used his free hand to grasp the Grandmaster's jaw and jerk his head back up to the ringleader. "You're not really in the position to be makin' threats, are ya?" the man stated, pointing a filthy finger at the Templar's bloodied face.

Haytham was looking around for means of escape when he saw it: Connor's hood expertly camouflaged within some tall shrubbery. He nearly sighed with relief. Rebellious attitude recaptured, he met the ringleader's gaze defiantly.

"Not yet," he taunted. The ringleader rose from his crouch and nodded his head towards a cabin behind. The guards yanked Haytham to his feet, not-so-gently shoving and dragging him until they were close enough to the building to smash him against the wall. Again, the Templar glanced at the bushes. His son, who he _knew_ was watching the whole thing, hadn't moved a muscle. Worry began to grow in the pit of his stomach.

Connor decided to let his father get a bit roughed up. Teach him a lesson, of sorts. After the man in charge drilled the Templar in the gut and then struck him once more in the face, Connor leapt from his cover and ran at the mercenaries, tomahawk drawn.

Before the ringleader could even react, the razor-sharp blade had slit open his throat. He dropped to the ground and gasped a final breath, his life staining the surrounding snow with crimson.

Haytham flexed his arms and shook off the shocked guards, immediately drawing his sword. The sound it made as it slid from its scabbard always filled him with a sort of pleasure. Since he couldn't take the life of the ringleader, he opted instead for the nasally one who had accused him of being a "Yank spy." He had to admit that pushing his blade through the guard's windpipe was the best feeling he'd encountered all day.

The stock of a firearm struck him on the shoulder from behind, and when the Grandmaster turned, he saw that Church's men were swarming into the camp. There must have been at least ten of them, and all were armed with bayoneted muskets. He quickly disposed of two, then paused to watch his son's fighting style.

It was…seamless. Fluid. Beautiful, in a strange sort of way. All of Connor's movements seemed connected and well-planned. It was almost as if he could foresee his opponent's attack before it was made. His kill streaks were quite impressive; the tomahawk was not just a weapon, it was _part_ of him. Within five seconds, the Assassin had downed another three guards. It was abundantly clear that Haytham's assistance wasn't needed, even though more mercenaries were coming to back up the ones getting slaughtered. They all gravitated towards Connor, who was stockpiling bodies in the middle of the cabin. The Templar shrugged, wiped the blade of his sword on a dead man's coattail, and replaced it in the scabbard. He began to stride away.

"Once you've dealt with these louts, meet me in New York!" the Grandmaster called to his son.

"What?! You mean to just leave, _now_?" Connor shouted, plunging his blade into the nearest man's skull. A spray of blood splashed across the chest of his robes, making him grimace in disgust. He didn't mind the killing part, but when their bodily liquids got all over him, that was where he drew the line.

"If you can't handle a couple of mercenaries," Haytham replied casually, "then we've really no business working together!" With that, he ran off into the white forest.

A _couple_ of mercenaries? Eight more had just added themselves to the original ten! "Unbelievable," Connor hissed under his breath, blocking an axe that was being swung his way. Forcing the mercenary back, he kicked the weapon from his hand and drove a hidden blade between his eyes. As he kept disposing of Church's men, he let his mind wander. It wasn't that he couldn't handle a couple of mercenaries on his own—clearly, he could. But a little help would have been nice.

When the last man fell, Connor glanced at his weapon. The leather handle was slick with blood everywhere except where his hand had been gripping it; there, dried blood adhered his skin to the material, making his fingers stick a bit as he loosened his grip. He couldn't even see the glint of the metal blade underneath all of the red. It was rather convenient that there was a small pond right nearby.

As Connor knelt at the edge of the water, washing his tomahawk and hidden blades, he steamed over how his father had just skipped off into the woods like everything was rainbows and sunshine. Meeting up with him for a second time in New York would be interesting, to say the least.

The Assassin glanced down at his robes, his nose wrinkling at all of the red stains. New York would have to wait, because laundry was coming first.


	2. Father and Son

**Author's Note: I think I can…I think I can…capture all the emotion I want to with these two. Lol. I'm trying, anyway! **

**Disclaimer: I own not an iota of the Assassin's Creed franchise.**

Noise. Essentially, that word alone could define the city of New York. Children running through the streets while squealing and laughing, adults chattering in little groups, town criers shouting loud enough for the Asian continent to hear. Horses screaming and their hooves pounding on stone, dogs barking, cats screeching, pigs snorting. The filthy Redcoats and their resonating snare drums. Shouts of the people they were trespassing against.

It was hard to describe how much Connor disliked the place. He tolerated it so long as he had business there—like he did tonight—but he would never choose to go on his own time. He walked down the crowded streets now, using alleyways to shy away from people as much as possible. The Assassin didn't much care for interaction with strangers unless he intended to kill them after a few words or even none at all. While he was occasionally tempted to stick his blade into ornery drunks, Connor usually tried to tune everyone out and travel on in his own little world.

Haytham, on the other hand, found the city…intriguing. That's not to say he liked it; he didn't, really. The decibel level and stench of waste repulsed him, too. But observing human interaction had always been a hobby of his, and there were plenty of things to witness in this crowded metropolis. Just the other day, he'd seen a man thrown from his house by his wife. She had reportedly "had enough of his escapades at the brothel." The Templar Grandmaster had chuckled from the rooftop he was sitting on, then had settled back down to resume studying the stars. He remembered wishing that he knew some constellations. Another reason that New York appealed to him so was because there was a dog that knew exactly who he was and came up to him every day to lick his hand. Haytham always brought him a small bowl of broth or meat scraps he had from leftover meals. Sometimes he sat outside with the animal, brushing its fur until all the knots became untangled. Tonight, however, he sat under a pavilion at the docks, awaiting his son's arrival.

It had rained earlier that day, and avoiding puddles on the streets was as difficult as traversing a minefield. Connor hated to admit it, but he made a sort of childish game out of stepping and hopping over them. He only resumed playing when no one was watching, however. It passed the time quickly for him. Soon, he found himself at the docks, the designated place to meet his father. The idea of the man was still foreign to the Assassin. Other than Achilles, he was not used to having an authority figure in his life; he'd taken care of himself ever since his mother died when he was young. This, of course, led to a fierce independence—sometimes to a fault—and a rebellious spirit when he was being made to do something he detested. Although he would hardly call his father an authority figure, it was still strange to have a man in his life that could legitimately claim to have some kind of control over him.

The docks weren't as busy in the evenings, but they weren't deserted, either. Connor walked among the other people as close as he dared, trying to catch a glimpse of his father's ridiculous hat or the scarlet underside of his cape. He gave up after a while. The Assassin ended up in front of a pavilion, facing the downtown of the city. _Well, where the hell is he_? he thought.

"Evening, Connor." Haytham had spotted his son and walked up behind him before the latter laid eyes on him. He whirled around, a little surprised at being snuck up on. "I see you made it here in one piece," his father continued, halfway teasing and halfway mocking.

Connor scoffed at the jab. His father had little room to speak. "Recovered from your beating, then?" he taunted.

The comment surprised Haytham. He hadn't really expected a comeback because, well, his son didn't really strike him as that type of person. He'd been wrong, evidently. Connor was justified in his reply, however, and the Grandmaster was struck with the lack of one—his face just twisted into an indignant scowl before he decided to drop the subject and return to the reason for their meeting.

Nearly grinning at his father's avoidance of addressing his faults, Connor watched as the Templar refused to meet his gaze and stepped out from behind to stand beside. "Benjamin Church is holed up in an abandoned brewery on the waterfront. We should be done with this by sunrise," his father informed him.

The Assassin nodded a bit. "Good. I would like to have those supplies returned as soon as possible."

"Of course." Haytham gave his son a look that one would give a senile man when sidestepping him in the streets. "I wouldn't want to keep you from your lost cause. Come along then; follow me."

Connor rolled his eyes behind his father's back, then jogged to catch up with him. They climbed a ramp up to the edge of a rooftop and hoisted themselves aloft, opening the door to much faster travel than walking New York's roads. The Assassin couldn't help but notice that, while his father wasn't young anymore, he still had no problems running and jumping across rooftops. One had to admire the grace and skill which the man harbored, clearly honed in over decades of practice.

In turn, Haytham was impressed by the ease of Connor's own abilities. Clearly, this came as second nature to the boy. The Grandmaster also couldn't avoid the truth that—no matter who was on what side—these abilities were encoded into their blood. They were tied together by generations of Assassins even though Haytham had…defected, as it were. For all the tossing and turning Haytham's father had probably done in the grave from his own son's allegiances, the actions of his grandson had no doubt set him at peace. The Grandmaster almost chuckled at the thought.

The two men's progress was halted on a particularly high rooftop beside a domed building. Haytham stood on the edge, making sure that they were on the right course. He could see the brewery from here and nodded to himself.

Connor stood back, watching his father. A thousand questions burned on his tongue, and before he could check himself, words came tumbling out. "Tell me something," he blurted.

Haytham glanced over his shoulder. His son couldn't see, but an amused smile had formed on his face from the boy's apparent eagerness. Rather than use words, the Grandmaster just made an acknowledging noise. "Hmm?"

"You could have killed me when we first met. What stayed your hand?"

The query took the Templar aback. He knew not what he'd been expecting, but it hadn't been that. As a result, he had no answer prepared. The truth—which was that Haytham couldn't bear to just slaughter his own son without him having any real knowledge of his father—was too complicated to explain. "Curiosity," he replied after a beat. He could sense his son wanted to say more, so he kept himself open. "Any other questions?"

Rain drizzled down from the sky, dampening the shoulders of both men. Connor kept his eyes downcast and scuffed the toe of his boot across a roof tile. "What is it the Templars truly seek?" Achilles, of course, had told him millions of times what their goals were. It wasn't that he doubted, but he'd never before had the chance to directly ask a Templar to defend their Order's actions. Now, he had the Grandmaster at his leisure. Well…sort of.

Haytham turned around, a little surprised at the uncertainty and hesitance his son's tone held. Perhaps this was an opportunity to try and sway his opinions, to save him from his ignorance. "Order. Purpose. Direction. No more than that. It's your lot that means to confound with this nonsense talk of freedom." The Templar moved to stand closer to his son. "Time was, the Assassins professed a far more sensible goal: that of peace."

"Freedom _is_ peace," Connor insisted. His father had been making to turn back around, but his son's reply stopped him dead.

"Oh no," Haytham corrected. "It's an invitation to chaos." He again faced the city, sweeping his arm in a grand gesture while walking forward. Connor followed. "Only look at this little revolution your friends have started. I have stood before the Continental Congress and listened to them stamp and shout—all in the name of liberty! But it is just noise."

"And _this_ is why you favor Lee?" The Assassin could hardly believe that his father believed in achieving peace, yet had a violent, brutal man for his sidekick of sorts. A rush of anger accompanied the mere thought of the man, and Connor's jaw clenched.

Haytham was quick to defend. "He understands the needs of this would-be nation far better than the jobbernowls who profess to represent it!"

It was clear that his father was referring largely to George Washington, and that there were sore feelings still lingering from Lee being passed over for command of the Patriot army. His son snorted quietly. "It seems your tongue has tasted sour grapes. The people have made their choice, and it was Washington."

His father looked down, appearing to be…sad? Tired? Connor couldn't really identify the look on his face, but it stirred something within him. "The people chose nothing. It was done by a group of privileged cowards seeking only to enrich themselves." The Grandmaster's voice was rising to a yell. "They convened in private and made a decision that would benefit _them_! Oh, they might have dressed it up with pretty words, but that does not make it true." Haytham got as close to his son as he knew the boy would allow and locked eyes with him. Connor felt uncomfortable as his father's gaze bored into him, but he could not deny the raw honesty and passion he saw in them.

"The only difference, Connor—the _only_ difference between myself and those you aid—is that I do not feign affection." Once his father's back was turned, the Assassin allowed himself to, for the first time in years, look uncertain. He could not say that he had never been unsure as to what the true motives of the nation's leaders were, but he doubted he would ever agree with the actions of his father's Order. Siding with Washington and the others, he realized, had been the lesser of two evils.

Haytham may not have won his son over to the Templar cause, but he did inspire him to do something else that night: rather than believing infallibly in the ways and means of the Patriot leaders, Connor placed his trust in his own two hands.

* * *

"Hold a moment." Haytham's quiet command came just before Connor stepped out from the cover of the alleyway's shadows. The Assassin paused at the corner, watching his father study the guards in front of the brewery.

"Church, you clever bastard," the Templar muttered.

Connor blinked. "What is it?"

"I was hoping I could wave you past the guards, but he's replaced most of them with men I don't know. Hmm…" he trailed off, thinking. Well, if Connor was going to raise the alarm, then it wasn't worth it; Haytham would go it alone. "Well, I should be able to pass without arousing suspicion, but you…" he pointedly looked at his son, then decided not to continue.

His father made to walk away alone, but the Assassin grabbed his elbow. "No," Connor said gently. "We do this together or not at all."

Haytham was astonished that his son would touch him. Even though it hadn't been skin-to-skin contact, the area of his arm where Connor had gripped it tingled. "Then what do you propose?"

"I will find a guard who is off duty and take his uniform."

The Grandmaster thought the plan sensible enough. "Very well. I will wait here, then." He settled down against the adjacent brick wall.

"Of course you will," Connor jabbed. He made to walk away.

"_Oh_, I'm sorry. Would you like me to come along and hold your hand, perhaps? Provide kind words of encouragement?" Haytham mocked. Connor waved his hand and strode away. His father allowed himself a grin, then adjusted himself against the cold stone.

* * *

"This is just ridiculous," Connor muttered to himself. The mercenary's uniform fit him well enough, but he disliked the general style. Worst of all, he had to wear one of those wretched tricorne hats. His captain's uniform for the Aquila also had a tricorne hat, but normally he opted not to put it on. The Assassin found himself embarrassed to return to his father looking like this. He busied himself with pretending to adjust the clothing as he approached the awaiting Templar.

Haytham watched Connor draw nearer. As he stood, he realized that his son was…well, handsome. Very much so. The Assassin hood had always kept some of his face hidden, and it felt like Haytham was seeing him for the first time. A swell of pride ran through the Grandmaster, and he straightened his son's lapels.

"That should suffice." He paused, wondering if he should give out a compliment. He decided against it. "Follow me."

As the two men approached, one of the guards puffed himself up and stopped them. Even for his efforts, he was noticeably smaller than the Templar and the Assassin. "Hold, strangers. You tread on private property. What business have you here?" the guard demanded.

"The Father of Understanding guides us," Haytham replied, reciting a Templar motto. The guard gave a small nod in his direction, then glanced at Connor.

"You, I recognize. Not the savage." He spit the last word like it was a curse.

Connor had to force himself not to roll his eyes. He received insults from impertinent people all the time, but they never bothered him. He had the comfort of knowing he could kill them within half a second if he wanted to.

Haytham, however, took great offense to the guard's word choice. Rage glinted in his icy blue eyes and his nostrils flared. "He is my son." The Grandmaster's voice had dropped into a deadly, quiet tone. The Assassin gaped at him, shocked that his father would let the truth slip off his tongue so easily.

A vulgar smirk twisted the guard's mouth. He leaned toward Haytham like the two were in each other's confidence. "Tasted of the forest's fruits, did you?"

Automatically, the Templar's hidden blade shot out from underneath his sleeve. _No one_ spoke of he and Ziio's relationship in such a dirty, disgusting manner. The only reason he didn't plunge it into the guard's throat was because his son's hand covered his own, stopping him. The Grandmaster forced himself to take a deep breath, and the blade silently slid back into cover. Meanwhile, the oblivious guard had knocked twice on the wooden door behind him.

"Off you go, then," he said as it opened. Haytham quickly strode past before he did anything foolish, but Connor gave the guard a lasting glare that made the smaller man cringe a bit.

As he trailed after his father, the Assassin thought about the Templar's reaction to the idiotic guard's words. If he didn't know any better—which he did—Connor would have sworn that Haytham still had feelings for his mother.

But that was impossible, as _he_ was the reason she was dead.


	3. The Foam and the Flames

**Author's Note: Whew! Multiple stories at once is hard to keep up with. Okay, here's the next chapter! Just a heads up, this is where a bit of deviation from the actual cutscenes begins. Not ridiculous differences, just a little play with the dialogue to things that I feel would have befitted the characters better in the game.**

**Disclaimer: Me? Own nada. Ubisoft? Owns all.**

The brewery was quiet—almost too quiet. All Connor could smell was the scent of rotting wood and gunpowder. He stepped lightly in case the creaking floor suddenly felt like giving way.

"It's locked," Haytham announced after yanking on a large door barring their path. "Give me a moment." His hand slipped inside his overcoat and pulled out tools for picking a lock.

Connor leaned against the wall and kept watch, folding his arms across his chest. "Must be strange for you, discovering my existence as you have." In reality, he didn't much care for his father's emotions. He just wanted to know what the Grandmaster had thought when he learned of his Assassin son.

Unfortunately, Haytham didn't impart much knowledge onto Connor. He simply skirted that particular part of the issue and said something indirect. "I'm actually curious to know what your mother might have said about me. I've always wondered what life might have been like had she and I stayed together." The Templar rose, finished with the small task. He wanted to know how Ziio was so very badly. Truth be told, ever since he'd met his son, the fiery hope of seeing her again had been ignited in his chest. "How is she, by the way?"

Connor clenched his jaw and sucked in small breath. Normally he prepared himself for such a line of questioning, but his father's query caught him completely off guard. "Dead. Murdered," he managed. Discomfort swept through him like wildfire, so he pushed off from the wall and looked away.

The blaze in Haytham's chest was extinguished like God himself had blown it out. He couldn't breathe; he felt like he was falling, and there was nothing to grab hold of. "What?" The single word came out as a whisper. Connor narrowed his eyes as he studied the Grandmaster's face. He seemed…genuinely distraught. But why was he playing dumb about this? He already knew she was dead.

Haytham finally recovered. "I'm sorry to hear that." And he meant it.

Just like that, the volcano of his son's temper erupted. He rounded on his father and laid into him like a wolf at an elk's throat. "Oh, you're sorry!"

The Templar was startled at the Assassin's outburst. Connor's face was like thunder, and it was obvious that something Haytham had said enraged him.

Connor took a breath and continued, recounting the most painful memory he would ever possess. "I found my mother burning alive." His voice nearly broke, but he reined it in before it could. "I'll never forget her face as she sent me away. Charles Lee is responsible for her death by _your order_!" he yelled. He was breathing hard as an overworked horse. The Assassin held his hands up, making his next words bitingly, bitterly sarcastic. "And you're _sorry_."

Haytham jumped to clear his name. Now he understood why his son had a vast reservoir of hatred deep inside for him: it was clear that he was thirsting for revenge in some form or another. "That's impossible," the Grandmaster blustered. "I gave no such order. I spoke the opposite, in fact; I told them to give up the search for the Precursor Site! We were to focus on more practical pursuits!" He was desperate for his son to listen, for his son to understand. Haytham couldn't imagine what it was like for Connor to cooperate with the person who he thought had killed his mother—and for that person to be his own father, no less.

"It is done, and I am all out of forgiveness." Connor's eyes burned into Haytham's, then he pushed past him and yanked the door open, striding out.

The Grandmaster was frozen to the spot in which he stood. The evidence of a hard, painful life had been in his son's eyes. It took his breath away to see someone so young carry so much weight on their shoulders, especially when said person was his child. Haytham shook his head to clear it, then slowly followed the Assassin who was already many strides ahead.

* * *

Connor stepped out from behind a pile of crates to get a better look at the man in front of him that he assumed was Benjamin Church. His back was turned, but the Assassin could see that he wore a powdered wig and black coat. Taking a breath, Connor raised a foot to go forward.

Haytham saw that his son was about to confront Church and hurriedly dropped a hand onto his shoulder to pass him by and take lead. Anger boiled deep within his chest for many a reason, and Church would have to suffice as a punching bag. The twit had been a severe pain in his ass, after all.

"Benjamin Church," he growled at the unsuspecting back, "you stand accused of betraying the Templar Order and abandoning our principles in pursuit of personal gain. In consideration of your crime, I hereby sentence you to death." The Grandmaster couldn't help that—by the end of his little speech—he sounded a bit cheerful.

It soon disappeared when Church turned around, for it was not actually Church. "NOW!" the imposter yelled.

Immediately, two guards with muskets raised ran out of the shadows, boxing Connor and Haytham in. The Templar would have bet his bottom pounds that there were more shaded by the darkness.

The stranger folded his hands behind his back and walked toward them arrogantly. "You're too late," he gloated. "Church and the cargo are long gone…and I'm afraid you won't be in any condition to follow."

As soon as the last syllable left his tongue, the two guards lurched forward. Hidden blades whipped out from both the Assassin and the Templar, backs bending to duck the jabbing bayonets and coming back up to slash the throats. Blood ran a river down the skin of the men's throats, and they dropped to their knees, guns clattering to the floor. More guards swarmed out of the black.

Connor had drawn his tomahawk by now—Haytham his sword. The guards weren't trained exceedingly well, so they were disposed of with practiced ease. They sheathed their weapons and turned, expecting to have to chase the impostor down.

The man was lying on the floor in apparent surrender.

_Coward_, Haytham thought to himself with a smirk. He looked on as Connor knelt beside "Church" and grabbed the back of his neck.

"Where is Church?" the Assassin growled, not in a gaming mood.

The impostor was skittish as a rabbit. "I'll tell you; anything you want! Only promise that you'll let me live!" he begged.

Connor's impatience flared as he glanced over his shoulder to his father. The Grandmaster only shrugged as if to say, "Do whatever you have to." Connor wrapped his hands around the man's arms and yanked him upright. The unexpected force caused the stranger to grunt; he shuddered when he saw the tomahawk's blood-tipped blade.

"You have my word," the Assassin promised.

"He left yesterday for Martinique. Took passage on a trading stoop called _The Welcome_. Loaded half its hold with the supplies he stole from the Patriots. That's all I know, I swear!" he gushed.

From behind, Haytham flicked his wrist and drove the blade into the middle of his back, grazing the spine and puncturing a lung. The man gasped with pain, struggling to breathe as blood flooded his airways. He fell forward as the Templar removed the blade.

The man's tortured eyes latched onto Connor's for a moment. "You promised," he choked. He completed the distance to the floor and was dead when he hit the stones.

"And _he_ kept his word," Haytham replied. His son stared at him with a mixture of horror and confusion. It stirred something in the Grandmaster, but he wasn't sure what. He felt a rush of…shame? Was it possible that he had acted rashly? "Let's go." His voice was quiet, devoid of the airy quality it had possessed only seconds earlier.

Three guards promptly ran onto a platform overhead, muskets pointed straight at the Templar and Assassin. Instinct drove Connor to grab his father and safely drop to the floor behind a pile of wooden crates.

Not to be deterred, the guards shifted aim to a cluster of gunpowder barrels and opened fire, running as soon as they exploded. The brewery burst into flames as Connor got to his feet. Haytham immediately ran to the fallen debris and began to climb, intending to chase the runaway guards. His son was doubled over, feet anchoring him to the floor.

Connor attempted to gasp in breaths to calm himself. _Fire. Orange. Flames. Red. Burn._ His mind ran around in circles, fear paralyzing him. Ever since his mother's death, he had always been afraid of fire when it was present in such a scale as this. The insidious flames danced and curled to the ceiling, spreading quickly and laughing at him. Connor could feel the heat on his skin, and sweat poured down his face. The image of his mother being eaten alive by fire was seared behind his eyes. Screams echoed in his ears.

Haytham paused in his climbing when he noticed that Connor was not following him. Looking down, he saw his son frozen in the middle of the room. Flames cast a glow over his hunched form, mixing light and shadows onto the pain-filled grimace twisting his face. Beads of sweat were running in rivulets over any skin that was visible. At first, the Grandmaster couldn't figure out what was the matter; then it occurred to him.

_He is terrified_, Haytham realized. And, right then, his sympathy for his son was so strong that it felt like an arrow of sorrow had pierced his heart. He didn't have time to climb back down and get him, so Haytham cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted.

"We need to get out of here, Connor!"

The Assassin slowly opened his eyes as his father's voice penetrated the roar of the flames and the barrier of his mind. For the first time, the realization that he had another parent in his life truly sank in. His father was right above him, shouting for him to move. He was _there_. Despite the fire raging around him, Connor began to feel safe. He did not know why, and he labeled the feelings as irrational. But, at the same time, he was grateful for them. He looked up and met Haytham's eyes.

"Thank God," the Templar whispered to himself. He hadn't been sure if his son was even in a state to hear his words. He yelled to Connor again. "Follow me! I will see us safe!" Haytham refrained from adding "I promise" onto the end of his sentence.

Connor shook his head to clear it and staggered forward, regaining his coordination with each step as the jaws of fear lessened its bite. He kept his eyes on his father at all times, keeping track of every direction he went in. Other explosions were triggered sporadically that blew up the path his father had taken. Connor didn't notice one until it was almost too late. A gaping hole almost ten feet across stood less than inches before him, hungry flames snarling beneath. There was no choice but to gather his strength and jump.

Haytham glanced behind him to see Connor soaring through the air. He whipped around on the beam that supported him and watched, his frantic heartbeat echoing in his ears. The Grandmaster began to full-on panic when it appeared that his son wasn't going to clear the distance.

Fear sliced through Connor's chest when he began to sink towards the flames below. He was still a few feet from the other platform, and he was falling fast. The Assassin was ready to accept his fate when his raised hands latched onto the platform's lip, jarring his shoulders and wrenching him to a stop that almost loosed his grip. He wasted no time in pulling himself up.

Haytham exhaled the held-in breath that was scalding his lungs and continued forward. Soon after, another explosion dropped Connor below. "You'll have to find another way around the flames!" he yelled, not sure if his son could even hear. The Templar caught sight of a guard disappearing up a ladder, then kicking it down. "Get back here, traitors!"

Connor trusted his instincts to guide him through the burning maze. Eventually, he came to a splintered piece of wall that took him straight up to where a confrontation between his father and the guards was taking place. As far as he could discern, there was no actual fighting occurring, but his father was taunting the guards.

"What good does your gold do you now? Is it magic gold, do you think—like the one they spun the fleece from? Do you think it will protect you from the flames? You should see their faces, son; the fear, the panic! Why, I think this one wet his pants," Haytham finished dryly. He tapped his foot impatiently, then started up again. "I grow impatient, Connor. If you do not show soon, I will have to kill all of them myself."

"Such an impossible feat for you," Connor muttered to himself. He was now at the top, and braced his forearms against the lip to climb onto it. He groaned as sharp pains shot through his shoulders. That jump had probably done a bit of damage.

As soon as the Assassin got to his feet, a beam fell from the ceiling and collapsed onto the floor between his father and the guards. A chasm opened and swallowed Haytham and the guards whole. Connor hissed an expletive and hurried over to the edge.

His father was dangling by an arm.

The Templar grunted and motioned for his son to help him. Connor nearly rolled his eyes in relief and joined hands with Haytham, pulling him up out of the hole. The Assassin clenched his jaw so he wouldn't cry out from the pain in his shoulders.

Haytham nodded his thanks to his son. He peered around for an exit, settling on a door that took up most of the west wall and seemed to slide up. It wouldn't budge when he attempted to open it.

"Stuck," he sighed. "See if you can find something to pry it open."

No response.

"Connor?" Haytham turned around. "What are you up to?"

The Assassin was currently crouched, ready to smash through the door.

"Oh, no. Don't do that." His son ignored him and began to charge. For some reason, Haytham couldn't find it within himself to move out of the way. "There's no way of knowing what's on the other SIIIII—"

Connor barreled into his father, the momentum causing arms to wrap around his chest as they burst through the old door.

"—IIIIIIIIDE." The two men crashed into the harbor below, water spraying up and into Haytham's mouth. He surfaced first, and his son a moment later. The Grandmaster spit out his mouthful of seawater and gasped in a breath. Connor was dangerously close to laughing at the sight.

"We do now." His tone held repressed mirth as he smirked at his father. Haytham gave him a dry glare and began to swim toward the dock.

_I hate being wet_, the Templar thought with a growl, getting to his feet on solid ground. The water from he and Connor's robes dripped onto the boards, pattering lightly.

"Church has at least a day on us. We must move quickly if we're to catch him."

"I have a ship we can use," Connor replied immediately. _The Aquila_ was quick and nimble, and she would make up for lost time rapidly. "Meet me on the pier when you're ready." The Assassin strode away, aching to get out of the soaking uniform that was now chafing him.

Haytham blinked in surprise at the retreating back, then looked back into the water they had just climbed out of.

His tricorne hat was floating some feet away, taunting him. The Grandmaster moaned and pinched his nose shut before jumping back into the cold water.


	4. A Bitter End-Part I

**Author's Note: I started replaying all the memories of Connor and Haytham. Is this the first time I have done so? Not by a long shot.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own the Assassin's Creed franchise, but Ubisoft does.**

Connor Kenway let out a very quiet, un-Assassin-like squeak as his arms moved a bit. It wasn't the first time he'd made the noise, and it was due to the insatiable soreness in his shoulders. He could honestly say that his Assassin training hadn't even given him this much trouble. He'd actually considered that he may have pulled some muscles after that jump in the brewery. Whatever the cause, it was hurting like a whore who hadn't gotten her payment.

As he approached the docks, he recognized his father with ease. Haytham Kenway was the only man wearing a scarlet cape and a navy blue tricorne hat. In addition, most people gave him a wide berth as they walked by, intimidated by his character. Except the women, Connor noted. They strode as close as possible without actually causing physical contact, smiling and stealing glances. The Assassin was secretly pleased that his father seemed to be ignoring each one of them.

Haytham saw his son approach and squared his shoulders. The females who had previously been looking at him like their next meal now turned their attention to Connor, equally—if not more—enthralled. However, for all the attention he paid them, they may has well have been invisible. He chuckled under his breath, making sure no one heard.

"Hello, Connor," he said. The Grandmaster didn't know what possessed him to do so, but he gave the Assassin a polite smile.

Connor's face, of course, remained stony. "Hello."

Haytham stepped out of his path and swept his arm in the direction of the ships floating near the docks. "Lead the way."

They climbed into a small boat that would take them the remaining distance to the _Aquila_. The Templar faced forward as the Assassin carefully stepped in behind, trying not to jostle the boat too much. Connor put his hands on his father's back for balance, retracting them as soon as he was steady. He couldn't help but notice that his father felt very solid for someone of his age. The Grandmaster shifted a bit, processing that his son had, indeed, touched him of his own volition.

"Shall we?" Haytham's voice was expectant, and his arms were crossed over his chest. Connor's eyes burned holes in his back, then looked balefully at the oars. Obviously having no choice, the Assassin steeled his jaw, took them up, plunged them into the water, and pulled.

Instantly, his shoulders exploded into pain.

A groan clawed up his throat, and he failed at stopping all of it from coming out of his mouth. The result was a strange, strangled noise that one makes when choking. His father's backwards glance at the sound caused his cheeks to burn with embarrassment, and he was thankful that the hood obscured his reaction.

"Having problems?" Haytham asked. His tone was a tad condescending, but he was a little worried. From studying him and seeing him fight, he'd surmised that his son did not make noises out of pain unless it was exceeding.

"No," Connor growled through gritted teeth. In truth, it felt as if his arms were preparing to fall off his body. His father said no more about it, thankfully, and he slowly rowed them to the ship.

"Captain!" Robert Faulkner exclaimed as they came aboard. Haytham's brows shot up at the title. He hadn't expected his son to hold that particular rank.

"Bobby," Connor greeted, pushing back his hood. "This is—"

"I know who he is," Faulkner stated flatly. He'd just noticed Haytham Kenway standing on the deck, and it was registering that there was a Templar on his ship.

The first mate's disapproval did not escape the Grandmaster's notice, but he chose to ignore it. He couldn't say that would not feel the same way if their roles were reversed.

"Haytham Kenway. Pleased to meet you," he offered cordially, holding out a hand. Very reluctantly, Faulkner shook it.

"Have someone show him to his quarters," Connor requested, beginning to stride away.

"Where would those be, Captain?"

"Pick one of the officer's cabins, Mister Faulkner," the Assassin threw over his shoulder, continuing to head to his own quarters. He needed to change into his uniform and see if the accounting books were updated, possibly grabbing some rest in the process.

Haytham followed Bobby to an officer's cabin. It was spacious and clean with a window that let in some sunlight. A small desk was in the right corner with an inkwell and pen. _Good_, he thought. _I'll be able to write in my journal_.

"I don't like you, Kenway." Faulkner's blunt statement interrupted the Grandmaster's thoughts, and he shifted his attention to the man. "I'm pretty sure the Captain doesn't, either, and I've no idea why he brought you here."

"We're looking for Benjamin—"

"I know who it is you're looking for," the first mate cut him off. "But, I don't know why he brought you on here if you can't be trusted."

The Templar remained unprovoked. "I mean you no harm."

"Bloody rich," Faulkner spat. "I wouldn't put it past you to drive a knife in the Captain's back as soon as he turns 'round."

Haytham's shoulders went rigid, and he took a menacing step forward. "Connor is my son. Beyond that, we have called a truce. I do _not_ betray my allies."

The first mate's eyes went as round as a full moon. "You're the boy's father?"

The Grandmaster was a little shocked to learn that Faulkner—who appeared to be his son's closest friend—did not know this. "You were unaware?"

"The Captain plays his cards pretty close to the chest. He don't share about his private affairs, and I don't ask about 'em. He only told me that he was bringing a colleague aboard and that we were to set off for Martinique as soon as possible. Didn't think he meant a Templar, let alone the damn Grandmaster," Faulkner added in a mutter. He eyed Haytham, sizing him up a bit. "Well, isn't it grand? Connor's long-lost father is his sworn enemy. An Assassin from a Templar." He shook his head. "Poor boy. It's just his luck."

Haytham tilted his head to the side. "What do you mean, 'Just his luck'?"

The first mate waved a hand, then dragged it through his grizzled beard. "I shouldn't be talkin' about the Captain when he ain't here. Besides, he hasn't ever needed you, anyway." Faulkner turned and left the Templar's quarters, scratching the back of his head as he went.

Though he'd ever admit it, Haytham was stung by the last comment. He'd only known his own father since he was ten. Now, he was almost fifty and still wished he could ask for advice or guidance from him. The Templar shook his head, deciding that what Faulkner had said wasn't true. A son always needed his father, and now Haytham was in Connor's life. He intended to make the best of the situation, and—if he was successful in his endeavors—the Order would come out with its strongest member yet. A thrill ran through him at the prospect of governing the Order with his son at his side. They had already accomplished a lot, and they were enemies. Haytham swelled with excitement at the thought of their potential when his son was inducted into the Templar Order.

But, it was as they say—easier said than done.

* * *

Connor sat at his desk, looking over the accounting book. He knew that Bobby had recently purchased chain shot for the cannons, but it wasn't written down in the logs. He rolled his eyes fondly and penciled it in, knowing that his friend was never one for remembering to do so.

A knock on his doorframe compelled him to look up. Closing the accounting book, he turned his attention to the crewmember timidly standing at the entrance to the room. It was a young man of about sixteen, and Connor had had hesitations about welcoming him aboard as part of the crew. But, Owen Means had turned out to be a fine worker, brighter than his peers and a quick learner, if a bit timorous.

"Yes, Owen?" It had always seemed to Connor that Owen didn't have much confidence in himself, so he tried to look as amiable as possible whenever speaking with him.

As soon as their eyes met, Owen looked away, wringing his hands nervously. "You're needed topside," he informed his captain in a quiet, gentle English accent.

"Thank you. Tell them I'll be up there as soon as I can." The boy nodded, then nearly ran back up to relay the news. The Assassin turned to his bunk and took up the robes he'd changed out of, folding them neatly and setting them in the trunk at the foot of the bed. He grabbed his hat off a hook and set off for the upper deck.

"Captain," a crew member hailed as said man walked towards the helm. Connor couldn't recall his name, and felt a little bad about it.

"Is something wrong?"

"No, no. Nothin' like that. We was just wonderin' if we should test this chain shot. You know, give it a go before we enter real battle." The crewman's Scottish brogue prompted Connor to remember his name: Ben Connolly.

"I think it would be best to wait. There is nothing to shoot at right now, anyway." It was true: there was nothing around them but open water.

"See! I told you, Smalls. There ain't nothin' to shoot at, you big oaf!" Ben roared to a red-headed man beside him. Smalls was an accurate name for him, as he was thin as a beanpole. He nearly toppled over as the Scot gave him a good-natured shove. After all, Connolly was built like a brick shithouse.

"Play fair, Connolly," Connor chuckled. Ben gave him a grin and yanked Smalls to his side, pounding him on the back.

"Oh, the lad can take it, can't ya, Smalls?"

"I think you're breaking my ribs," Smalls wheezed. Connolly tipped his head back and let out a roar of laughter.

Connor shook his head with a smile. "Back to work, men." A resounding, "Aye, aye, Captain!" rose up, then the crew dispersed to do their various tasks.

The Assassin joined Bobby in looking out over the bow and studying the shimmering water. It appeared as if millions of diamonds were floating upon the waves, catching the sun's rays and reflecting them. "You forgot to write the chain shot into the accounting book."

"Sod that accounting book. Can't ever remember the blasted thing," Faulkner muttered.

"I know. Why do you think _I_ have to update it every time we purchase something?" Connor ribbed.

"Well, you stick with those sort of things, boy. You have the intelligence for them. I don't."

"One does not have to be intelligent to write in a book."

Faulkner grunted. He ran a hand through his receding hair, then faced his friend. "Connor…what are you thinking, lad?"

The Assassin's gaze flickered to his first mate. "I do not follow you."

"Having your father aboard. The man's the bloody leader of the Templars!"

"Ah, so he told you."

"Damn straight, he did. How do you know that he can be trusted?"

Connor shrugged. "I don't," he said simply. "But I do think he is honorable, in his own way. It will suffice as a substitute for trustworthy."

"Listen to yourself! A _substitute_? He is far from honorable!"

"He's not like the other Templars I've encountered, Bobby."

"How do you figure?" the first mate questioned.

"There's something about him. A certain…moral quality that the others lacked."

Bobby looked at him as if he'd suggested slashing the main sail. "_Moral quality_?"

Connor didn't blame his friend for being incredulous. "I know how it sounds, Bobby," he began. "But…I don't know how to describe it. He doesn't preach the senseless slaughter of everyone who are not Templars. My father advocates peace in some instances, even if his followers do not listen. The fact that I am even here shows that there is good in him." The Assassin's last statement was so quiet that Bobby strained to hear.

The first mate closed his eyes. He hated being rough, but Connor wasn't thinking realistically. "You being here does not prove that he is good. It proves that he's a man who makes mistakes." At his friend's hurt look, he quickly elaborated. "I don't mean that you're a mistake. I mean that your father has his weaknesses."

"All men do," the Assassin persisted.

"Wake up, boy! Don't you see that the only reason he hasn't killed you yet is so he can make you into one of them, make you into a Templar?"

The very thought revolted Connor. "I would never join them. You seem to think I harbor a favoring for him, Bobby. I do not. We are only working together until we find Church, which will be soon. After that, we part ways."

"And what about after that? Are you just going to let him be so he can kill more people and convert more Templars?"

To that, Connor had no answer.

"Do you even know what he did to your people, lad? To the Assassins?"

"That's enough questions, Mister Faulkner. Back to work." It was no longer a friend speaking, but the Captain of the _Aquila_.

Faulkner sighed. "Right away, sir."

Connor was left alone at the bow, wind billowing his coattails and caressing his face.

* * *

The pencil lightly scraped across the paper, shading in an area around the figure's face. Connor switched from long strokes to short ones to make the shadows darker. His drawing of Charles Lee was…unconventional, to say the least. Two vipers were coiled around either of his legs, their heads reaching to tower over Lee's. Long, curved fangs dropped down from the snakes' mouths, forked tongues out. The venomous animals were poised and ready to strike. Charles Lee was drawn to have an evil, arrogant smirk marring his features. It was all Connor could see when he thought of the man.

The Assassin sighed, placing the pencil in the binding of the journal. He leaned his head back against the mast he sat by, looking at the starry sky and listening to the waves rising and falling against the _Aquila_'s hull. The sails ruffled lightly against the gentle wind. It was a perfect night to sit up on the crow's nest platform. Connor had wanted privacy to draw, anyhow, so here he was.

Being forty plus feet above the deck was not private enough, apparently—a voice from behind startled him.

"Charming."

Connor's head jerked up to see his father staring down at his drawing. A small smile was on the Grandmaster's face as he appraised the work.

"It's a remarkable likeness. But, I don't remember ever seeing Charles with pet snakes." Truth be told, Haytham was immensely impressed with his son's artistic talent. He hadn't seemed like the type of person with those unique skills.

The Assassin said nothing, he only closed the journal and set it aside. "I assume you came up here seeking privacy, as well," his father said.

"Yes. And privacy entails _solitude_," Connor emphasized, turning his gaze back to the ocean.

Haytham rolled his eyes and sat beside his son. "Come, now. I'm not bothering you."

The Assassin snorted quietly. "I beg to differ," he muttered under his breath.

The Templar chose to ignore it. "It's a beautiful night," he commented after a moment.

"Yes."

Hesitantly, Haytham moved closer to Connor, but still kept a careful distance away. "Would you mind terribly to show me some of your other drawings? Or are they all Satanic depictions of Charles?"

Connor's lips twitched, and he stifled a chuckle. He decided that it wouldn't be unbearable to show his father the journal.

"Good Lord. These are…" Haytham trailed off when he reached a picture of an eagle on a tree branch, wings spread as if about to take flight and beak open in a silent scream.

It was one of Connor's best drawings. "I was sitting in a tree one day. He landed beside me, so that's how I was able to get even the smallest details," he explained. His father nodded his head absently, still staring at the journal page. The Grandmaster's brow was furrowed. Almost reverently, he ran his fingertips over the bird's head.

Then, as if realizing he was in a trance, he quickly flipped the page to a different drawing—an elk drinking from a stream. Like the eagle, it was incredibly detailed. "Do you always get so close?"

The Assassin shook his head. "Sometimes, animals can sense if you mean to harm them, but most times they will run away if I try and get too close." Haytham skimmed to another drawing. This one was of a bear standing on its hind legs in rage, mouth open and saliva dripping from canine teeth. The Templar could tell that it had come from his son's imagination and not from actually sketching while a bear was charging at him. There was just something about the lines and details that made it obvious. Connor looked away as his father studied other pictures. The moon was full, and the rippling water reflected it as a fractured, white orb.

Haytham came to the end of the journal, but there was a page that had been torn out and folded stuck in the binding. The corners looked extremely worn, and there were small rips here and there. Checking to make sure his son didn't notice, he quickly took it and tucked it into the folds of his coat.

Connor started when his father plopped the journal back into his lap. "You are very talented, Connor," he said, looking out over the waves.

"Thank you." Something had been bothering the Assassin since his talk with Bobby. His first mate had mentioned his father having done something to the Brotherhood, and he had a pretty good guess as to what Haytham Kenway was responsible for. "Was it you?" Connor asked quietly. "Was it you who murdered Achilles' family and destroyed the colonial Assassins?"

Haytham was silent for a moment. He knew that, if he tried to lie, his son would see right through him. He wasn't proud of the way he'd handled Achilles' wife and child, but it had needed to be done. Spirits had needed to be broken.

"Yes," he finally answered. "I lead the attack."

Connor's hands curled into tight fists, making his knuckles go white. He'd known the answer even before he'd asked the question, but it still made him angry. The Assassin stood and made his way over to the netting where he could climb back down the main mast. He hesitated, then said, "You ruined his life. I hope you always carry that with you." Connor dropped out of sight before his father could reply. Haytham sighed. It was only natural for the boy to feel that way. Achilles was his mentor, after all.

A few minutes passed. Then, Haytham reached into his coat pocket to extract the drawing. When it was unfolded, he could have sworn that his heart stopped for a fleeting second.

On the left side of the page stood Ziio. On the right stood a young boy that was obviously meant to be Connor, even though he was dressed in traditional Native clothing. Both of their hands were reaching out, but a flaming tree prevented them from connecting.

The Grandmaster swallowed, folded it back up, and put it back in his coat, resolving not to give it back until his son noticed it was gone.


	5. A Bitter End-Part II

**Author's Note: Hey, guys. Sorry for such a late update, but I've been very busy. Enjoy!**

**Disclaimer: None of this belongs to me except the fic.**

Connor felt the coolness of the wooden wheel beneath his hands. It had been worn smooth from years and years of use, and his fingers nervously stroked over the handles. The pattern of waves resounded in his ears.

He knew that his father had taken the drawing out of his sketchbook. But…why? What did he care? Connor had been toying with the issue for hours, and a throbbing had knotted itself inside his skull. The Assassin began to rub his temples to try and soothe the headache.

"Everything alright, Captain?" Faulkner's voice questioned from behind. The first mate's brow was furrowed in concern. Ever since Haytham Kenway had stepped foot on the ship, Connor hadn't relaxed for a second.

"Yes," Connor replied, not bothering to look at his first mate.

"Well…alright, then." Faulkner knew well that, if he pried and pushed the boy for information, he'd likely get a tongue-lashing.

"We're coming upon some shallow reefs, Mr. Faulkner," The Assassin revealed calmly. "You'd best brace yourself."

As if on cue, the _Aquila _shuddered and a loud, deep groan was produced as her bottom slid over the shallows. The crew members atop were not the least bit fazed. Most just continued their business as usual; one paused to tap cigar ashes over the rail.

The calm aura was immediately disrupted when a spluttering Haytham stomped onto the top deck from below.

"What in the _hell_ was that?" he demanded. Haytham Kenway hated traveling by sea and, truth be told, it confused and frightened him. Drowning was not his preferred way to leave life, so every little thing he construed as going wrong made his heart pound and adrenaline race.

The corners of Connor's mouth twitched upwards. "We went over a shallow reef. Nothing to worry about."

"Nothing to worry about? It sounded as if the boards were splintering!"

If it would not have been Haytham, the Assassin would have laughed at his overreaction. "I assure you, they were not."

Haytham knew he was being irrational. His son clearly knew more about sailing than he, but he could not calm his nerves. His ego also prevented him from backing down. "Perhaps someone with more experience should take the wheel."

Not even bothering to hide it, Connor rolled his eyes. "There was no way to avoid the shallows. If there had been, then I would have."

"And I _told_ you that this was a poor heading! Church is surely days ahead of us now," Haytham ranted.

"Have some faith in the boy," Faulkner cut in. "He's yet to disappoint."

The _Aquila _began to pass between two cliffs. "Half sail—ease her off!" Connor called to his men.

"Well, the bar's not been set very high now, has it?" the Grandmaster snubbed, replying to Faulkner.

"Oh, for crying out loud," Connor muttered under his breath. His next sentence was spoken in hearing volume. "We are closer than you think, father."

This seemed to satisfy Haytham, so the Assassin refocused on steering his ship through the maze of cliffs. Now and then he switched sail positions, depending on wind conditions. Once, he had to order all sails in because of a particularly strong rogue wind. He took delight in the sight of his father's white-knuckled death grip on a railing.

When they finally cleared the last cliff, a shout resonated from the crow's nest. "Ship ho!"

Connor could clearly see the vessel in the warm afternoon sunlight. "Is it the _Welcome_?"

"Aye!" Faulkner replied. "And she's dropped anchor!"

Haytham's excitement was beginning to build. He had been waiting for this moment for so long…so long. "Bring us in for a closer look, son!" he urged.

Connor glanced at his father. The Grandmaster was looking intently over the railing at the ship, an eager spark in his eyes. He wasn't sure how he felt about being called "son" in such a nice tone. He doubted that his father even noticed how kind he'd sounded.

Nevertheless, the Assassin complied and dropped in close to the _Welcome_'s side. There appeared to be no one on board, and a single wooden crate floated in the Caribbean waters. More to himself than anything, Connor said, "It seems the ship has been abandoned."

Haytham sighed, his hopes a bit dashed. His shoulders slouched. "Church always was a slippery little bastard."

"ENEMY AHEAD!" The cry from a crewmember cut through the air, causing every person's head to snap towards the other side of the _Aquila_. "THEY'RE MAKING TO FLEE!" he shouted again. His assumption was punctuated with cannon fire from said ship. Their aim was poor, however, and the two balls splashed harmlessly into the sea about ten feet ahead.

"After them! Give me everything we've got—full sail!" Connor ordered, voice thundering over the _Aquila_'s deck.

Haytham had to admit that his son's quick ability to assume command was impressive. The boy had a voice like a storm, and it was clear that he was the alpha wolf on the ship—people listened to him, trusted his judgment. But, for some reason, Haytham couldn't fully bring himself to do the same.

"Hurry, son! We won't get a second chance at this!" the Grandmaster said.

Connor continued to shout orders, battling rogue winds and avoiding reefs and cliffs. The _Aquila_ may have been faster, but the _Welcome_ was smaller and could fit through tighter squeezes. The Assassin was forced to go around some objects.

"Can this ship go no faster?!" Haytham yelled in frustration. "It's almost as though you _want_ him to escape!"

Nature began to work against Connor as much as it possibly could. Jagged cliffs jutted out of the water, making him take detours and sharp turns. The wind ripped at the sails, jerking them one way and then another. After a few minutes of bumpy riding, Haytham's nerves came to an end.

"_How_ is it that you came to captain a ship, given the way you sail?" he exploded angrily, dragging a hand across his eyes to dispel seawater.

Connor himself had had enough of Haytham's comments. Granted, it was the man's fear talking, but that didn't make it any less unbearable. "And what would you know about sailing?" he snapped.

The Grandmaster ground his teeth at his son's reply. He was right, of course, but Haytham couldn't show that. "Speed, Connor! We need more speed!" he yelled.

That was the Assassin's breaking point. "I am doing everything possible to stay with them, so BE QUIET!" he roared, black eyes flashing with anger.

Haytham's jaw went slack. No one had spoken to him like that in years, with the exception of Charles's occasional outbursts. The Grandmaster was literally rendered speechless. Connor, however, was just glad that his mouth stayed shut.

After a few moments, the Templar finally decided on what he was going to say. "Hmm," he mused. "I was beginning to think your mother had raised you to lack a spine."

It was Connor's turn to be shocked.

He and his father locked eyes. His stomach fluttered for reasons unknown, and he didn't know what to say. A cry from his first mate, however, saved him.

"She's passing between the cliffs, boy, and the _Aquila_'s too big to follow! We need to go around!"

And, just like that, Connor's one moment with his father evaporated. The almost-smile that had been on the Grandmaster's face melted into a look of renewed fury. "_Goddammit_! We're going to lose him!" Haytham fumed.

"What other choice have we?" Faulkner retorted. "Those rocks would crush us!"

Connor's mind raced. He scanned the water with his eyes, and noticed something different about the waves. "The current here is swift; we still have a chance!" he immediately, the water seized the ship and yanked, pulling it faster and faster. Connor spotted something in the corner of his vision.

"Enemy ships approaching! _BRACE_!" the Assassin commanded, knowing that the gunfire would come. Bullets riddled the water, causing sprays to rise and fall.

Connor rose after the onslaught and straightened his shoulders. "Ready our weapons! Prepare to return fire!"

The broadside cannons boomed, taking out two of the enemies. Swivel guns created a deadly pattern of sounds, shooting holes in men, deck boards, and sails.

"Church is using the ambush as cover!" Haytham realized. "Sink him before he escapes—send that bastard to the sea floor!"

"No!" Connor countered. "I need his ship afloat. The cargo must be saved."

The cannons exploded again, this time aiming for the Man-of-War. "Do not fire on that with our normal cannons!" the Assassin shouted. "Use chain shot to destroy the masts!"

"Stop him, Connor!" Haytham cried. Desperation was apparent in his voice, and Connor knew that he could not fail. Church had to be eliminated.

"Brace!" Connor instructed. Everyone on the deck crouched, and cannon balls sailed overhead. "Fire swivel guns! Aim for gunpowder barrels!"

"Focus on our true target! You should have listened to me!" Haytham yelled. His son politely ignored him.

In a matter of minutes, the last two enemies had sunk in clouds of fire. Connor's muscles burned as he jerked on the _Aquila_'s wheel to get her broadside to the Man-of-War.

"Do _not_ let Church escape!" Haytham growled, mainly to himself. Connor was too focused to notice his father's words, gritting his teeth as he strained to rein in the ship against the wind. As soon as they were in position, Connor gave the order to fire. Chain shot sailed into the air. Loud cracks resounded as the Man-of-War's masts snapped like toothpicks.

"Men, prepare to board—"

Connor's sentence was cut short when Haytham roughly grabbed him by the shoulders and shoved him away from the steering wheel. Since he was not expecting it, the Assassin fell into the railing, nearly going overboard.

His temper ignited quicker than the gunpowder they'd just shot. "What the _bloody hell_ are you doing?" he nearly screamed. This was _his _ship, and no one pushed him out of the way.

"Ending this!" Haytham snapped. His son watched in horror as he spun the wheel counter-clockwise, causing the _Aquila_'s front to careen towards the Man-of-War. There was an ear-splitting crash as the two ships collided, and wood splintered in all directions. Connor's anger became all-consuming, and he began to see red.

As soon as the ship came to a semi-halt, Haytham sprinted to the rail and catapulted himself onto the deck of the Man-of-War.

"_Father_!" Connor shouted, concerned now. All crewmembers on the Man-of-War were armed, and Haytham could easily be injured or killed if he were to be surrounded.

"Secure the ship!" the Assassin ordered. Ropes flew through the air.

"Hook us in! Bring her close!" Faulkner cried, drawing his sword. "To arms—to arms!" Muskets were thrown to every available crewmember.

With a cry, Connor heaved himself over the rail and led his men into battle.

* * *

There was nothing. Only dark, damp boards and a musty smell.

"Empty," Connor muttered to himself. "What has Church done with the cargo?" He began to slowly walk through the rows of broken crates. Just as he thought that no one was down there, a furious voice reached his ears.

"So here we are, face to face at last, my friend. It's been quite an adventure—let me tell you—working my way through your nasty little tricks and traps. Clever!...some of them, anyway. I'll give you credit for that. And for the quietude in which you pulled it off!"

Well, he'd found his father.

"WE HAD A DREAM, BENJAMIN! A dream you sought to destroy! And for that, my fallen friend, you will be made to pay!" Connor heard a muffled cry, but it wasn't from his father. Most likely, Benjamin Church was getting the snot beat out of him. Literally.

Kicking through a wide door, the Assassin saw he was right. Haytham had his arm cocked back over Church's bloody face. He punched him again, once…twice….three times.

"Enough," Connor said quietly, but with authority. "We came here for a reason."

Haytham glanced up at his son, red-hot rage coursing through his veins. Sweat was beaded on his forehead from his painful efforts. He could feel his overused knuckles throbbing dully, and he knew they would be swollen and bruised later on.

The Assassin held his father's gaze for a moment. The Grandmaster's usually bright blue eyes were now dark with fury, and the line between his angled brows and the ferocious twist of his mouth made him look positively menacing.

"Different reasons, it seems," he hissed, refocusing on Church. He landed one final punch, and Church groaned, letting his head thunk to the floor. He gasped quietly in pain as Haytham rose and paced a few feet away.

Connor replaced his father's presence with his own, laying a hand on the bloodied man's chest. He almost felt sorry for him, really. He would hate to be on the receiving end of Haytham Kenway's wrath.

"Where are the supplies you stole?"

Church's face, even through the gore, managed to morph into a condescending and arrogant look. "G…Go to hell," he whispered.

Connor closed his eyes. He'd hoped to get a better response. Flicking his wrist, he engaged his blade and plunged it into the man's side, making him cry out in pain.

"I ask again," the Assassin said evenly. "Where are the supplies?"

"We stored them on the island. But you have no right to them; they aren't yours!" Church replied. He took another shuddering breath, then went limp.

Connor sighed quietly as he closed the man's eyes. He hated killing—loathed it, even. But, it was critical to his mission. Regret, however, still filled his chest as he stood.

Haytham could see his son's shoulders visibly sag as he rose from crouching over Church's body. Killing people was never to be taken lightly, and he was glad that his son clearly had a conscience and emotions.

The Assassin jumped a bit when he felt a warm hand on his shoulder. "You did well," his father assured him gently. "His passing was a boon for us both." Haytham patted his son, then turned and strode away.

"Come on," he called over his shoulder. "I expect you'll want my help retrieving everything from the island."

Connor couldn't work his legs for a moment. His father had never touched him by deliberate choice before, much less in a comforting manner. The place where his hand had been tingled lightly, and he reached up to rub it and dispel the sensation.

He wasn't really looking forward to island cleanup.


	6. Encounter

**Author's Note: Hey, guys. Sincerest apologies for the horribly late update. It seems that my summer is more busy than my school year, but I'm sure it will die down sooner or later.**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing.**

_He isn't bad._

Connor watched his father carry a cargo crate onto the ship. It was well into the evening, and most of the light had long faded. Lanterns were used for vision. The Assassin, however, watched from the shadows of the trees lining the beach. He'd needed time to himself. To pacify Faulkner, he'd said he was going to take a brief exploration of the island.

The extent of his exploration had been noticing that the island was vast, the largest he'd seen on their journey so far.

His mind was gray with warring thoughts. Haytham was not good, no. But…would it be justified to call him bad? If someone had asked Connor that question a short time ago, he would have automatically answered with a yes. Now, he wasn't so sure.

It seemed that, ever since his father intruded upon his life, nothing was black or white anymore. Connor was finally beginning to see just how gray the world was, and it ripped him apart at times. Black and white issues were rare.

_No_, Connor corrected himself. _Every situation is black and white. But, black and white people are rare._

Haytham was most decidedly a gray person. He skirted around certain issues, but sliced right through others. His consistency was…slight, at best. The Templar's moral code was a twisted puzzle with many exceptions—or none at all—to some rules. It was difficult to track his whims. Connor realized that he would never truly understand his father until he spent a plentiful amount of time with him, doing nothing else apart from simply speaking. Doing so, however, did not sound pleasant or convenient. He and his father tended to clash over a great many things.

A sound behind the Assassin caused his ears to perk up. He turned, greeted with the sight of multiple glowing eyes. They seemed to just float in the darkness, flickering occasionally as whatever animal they belonged to blinked. The pair closest to him crept a bit closer, and a ray of moonlight fell onto its form. Silver fur refracted the light, glinting.

Wolves, Connor realized.

He glanced back to the ship, monitoring the progress of the cargo loading. All but one pair of eyes were gone when he turned back. Only the wolf that had taken a step towards him remained, fur glowing like an ethereal being. It was big. Its shoulder came to Connor's waist.

Until the wolf attacked, Connor would not respond violently. He simply stood there, gazing into the animal's eyes as it responded in kind. The Assassin noticed that wolf's eyes were a strange blue. The shade was so light that it was nearly white.

Soft ground muted the animal's footsteps as it came to stand beside Connor. His wrist twitched; the Assassin considered engaging his hidden blade for a precautionary measure. Wolves were unpredictable.

The beast simply broke eye contact and settled onto its haunches, peering beyond the trees to the men loading the cargo onto the _Aquila_. It studied silently.

Connor suddenly noticed the complete calm around him. Wind gently blew through the trees, causing leaves to billow. It played with the ocean and shaped waves with its fingers. The atmosphere seemed to affect the wolf.

The Assassin heard a noise from the animal, but when he looked down to where it had been sitting, it was gone. He looked all around, straining to see in the dark of the night.

Nothing.

Something about the encounter unsettled Connor. But, he simply straightened his shoulders and started off across the sand, back to his crew. It was time to journey home.


	7. A Night to Remember

**Author's Note: Hey, guys. As always, so sorry for the late update. Since writing is only a hobby of mine, I don't have all the time in the world to do these stories, but I do love working on them when I have the time on hand.**

**Disclaimer: Nothing is mine.**

It had been weeks since the sea chase for Benjamin Church. Connor had not received any word from his father, and to say that he was anxious would be an understatement. Most of the time, Haytham's absence and silence were all he could dwell on. Had he done something wrong on the last mission? Had his father simply decided to discontinue their partnership?

Whatever the case, the Assassin knew he needed to engage in something to get it off his mind. Achilles had been getting on his nerves of late, so Connor had decided to travel to New York in search of solace. It had worked in distracting him thus far, but the darkening evening brought silence with it, and in that silence lurked an invitation to think. His mind immediately wandered straight back to the Templar Grandmaster, true as a cow to pasture.

Connor blew out a testy sigh, fiddling with the string of his bow that was slung across his chest. Crickets were singing, dogs were barking, drunken adults were laughing raucously in the streets. Fiddle music from taverns floated out of open windows. Heels of shoes struck staccato notes onto cobblestones. From his perch on the rooftop of a house, the Assassin could see and hear everything below him.

"Daddy!"

A small boy's exclamation caught Connor's attention. He was well-dressed with curly blonde hair, and in his pudgy hand was what looked to be a rock. The Assassin squinted, trying to get a better visual. The man that was presumably "Daddy" turned around from his conversation with an older woman, his face lighting up in a grin when he saw his son.

"What've you got there, Jacob?" He knelt down on a knee so he could be level with him.

The boy proudly opened his hand fully, showcasing the rock. "It's shiny," he giggled. His father took the object from him and turned it in his own hand, pretending as if it were a diamond.

"It sure is. You know, I bet your mother would love it if you brought it home to her."

Jacob's eyes widened, and then he nodded vigorously. He hastily grabbed it from his father's palm and raced off down the street. His father laughingly apologized to the woman he'd been talking to and jogged after him, calling his name.

Connor watched until the man was out of sight, then eased onto his back, folding his hands behind his head. He found himself wishing for the thousandth time that he'd had a normal, loving family when he was a child. That wasn't to say that his mother hadn't loved him enough, that the tribe hadn't nurtured him as one of their own. But, even when he hadn't known his father, there had been many occasions where the Assassin had imagined what life would be like if Haytham had known about him and had wanted to be involved in his life.

The fear of that happening, however, is why his mother never told the Templar of his son's existence. The Assassin despised the cruel unfairness of it all. If there was a deity, then it must relish in the pain of others. He closed his eyes, feeling the mild burn of tiredness. Weeks of ceaseless work and worry tended to wear one down.

There is always a moment of blissful peace before the beginning of utter chaos. It is like cooling winds before a summer storm, or the silence of two armies before the culmination of war. For Connor, it was simply feeling the evening breeze on his face as he rested before a shot rang out in the night, followed by a bloodcurdling scream. The noise wrenched him to his feet, eyes wide open and now devoid of any lingering exhaustion. Another wailing cry pierced the air, and he sprinted across the rooftop in the direction of the racket.

Connor skidded to a stop on a ledge above a scene that punched a hole into his gut. The child named Jacob—who, just moments ago, had been the very picture of life—lay dead on the cobblestoned street, dark red staining the white shirt that covered his small chest. The color fanned out from a hole above what used to be a tiny, beating heart. Jacob's father was sobbing, a hand cradled under his son's blonde curls.

A British soldier stood over the grieving man, face etched in unsympathetic stone. "Move the body, sir," he commanded gruffly.

A pain-filled yell ripped from Jacob's father's throat. "He killed my son!"

"It was in the pursuit of a criminal, sir. Accidents happen."

The man's tone changed from anguished to incensed. "Accidents. _Accidents?_ You just murdered my child!" he roared, taking a swing at the guard. The Redcoat stumbled back, lip split open and leaking a color deeper than that of his coat. His nostrils flared, and he whipped the butt of his musket across the father's head in retaliation.

Connor leapt when the guard put the firearm to his shoulder in preparation to shoot. His feet landed square on the Redcoat's chest, crushing bone when the momentum of the jump smashed the guard into the ground. Before he could cry out, Connor's hidden blade sank into his windpipe. Blood bubbled from the wound as the soldier struggled to gasp in breaths. He was dead within seconds.

The hidden blades were wiped off and sheathed. Without turning around, Connor spoke. "What happened?"

"They were chasing a thief. The shot was meant for him, but Jacob ran into the line of fire…" the man trailed off, sobbing anew. The Assassin faced him.

"Where is the guard that killed your son?"

"He ran that way, after the thief." Jacob's father pointed down an empty street. "He didn't even stop."

Connor's jaw clenched so hard that he thought he would break teeth. "I will take care of it."

"Thank you," the man whispered.

Connor sprinted down the street. He couldn't get the vision of the little blonde boy calling happily to his father out of his head. His pulse pounded in his ears.

As he was running past an alleyway, he caught a flash of red in his peripherals. The Redcoat who had shot Jacob was leaning over the body of the now-dead thief, inspecting his own handiwork. From some deep corner of Connor's soul, anger rose like a starving flame. He let out a roar and charged the guard.

Disarming him in one smooth move, the Assassin tossed the musket aside and began to rain blows onto the Redcoat. Some part of him realized that he wasn't doing this only for Jacob. He was taking anger that stemmed from his own life out on this murderer. It vaguely occurred to him that he didn't much care.

In one smooth move, Connor positioned himself behind the guard, grabbed his head, and snapped his neck. The Redcoat slowly crumpled to the ground. The only sound now was Connor's hard, fast breathing.

"What the hell have you done?"

The Assassin whipped around, coming face to face with a blanching Haytham Kenway.


End file.
